


Five Times Doctor Nonagesimus Failed to Impress (And One Time She Succeeded)

by Isabelle_Saphir



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Blood, F/F, Mental Health Issues, Verbal Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25928173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isabelle_Saphir/pseuds/Isabelle_Saphir
Summary: Harrowhawk Nonagesimus is trying to be impressive. She fails five times. She succeeds once.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 12
Kudos: 111





	Five Times Doctor Nonagesimus Failed to Impress (And One Time She Succeeded)

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first fanfiction ever. What a ride. Many thanks to those who gave me nice words and encouragement, especially those in the Locked Tomb Discord!

Gideon sprawled on the couch and idly considered the effort it would take to adjust her position. She’d been sprawling on the couch for some time, and she was really getting into the important part of the sprawl now. This was a momentous point. If she moved, perhaps to get the awful pillow that had been taunting her with its awful scratchy black fabric and its obnoxious black fringe and shove it under her shoulder, she’d be committing to at least another hour of sprawl before she readjusted from “merely comfortable” to “wallowing in luxuriant excess.” She was nearly at luxuriant excess now, but a subtle twinge beneath her left shoulder blade was telling her discomfort was in her future if she didn’t change something. She decided to get the pillow. It was Saturday morning, her partner was still asleep, and she was in it for the long haul.

Time passed as she flicked through the various mandatory social networking steps of the weekend. Roller derby was cancelled, again. Dyas wanted to trade shifts so she could take her girlfriend Judith out for an anniversary. Hect was out chaperoning her nerd cousin to some nerd party. Gideon sighed in quiet bliss as she reached the stage of luxuriant excess. She could feel her muscles slowly unknotting. The second momentous point of her day would mosey by in an hour or two, when her phone would cease being even moderately interesting, and she would have to decide whether to nap, risk losing her blissful comfort in a grab for the television remote that was _just_ out of reach, or—she almost grimaced at the thought—get up and make herself something to eat. Thankfully, that decision was a problem for future Gideon, and so she put it out of her mind so that she could promptly spasm in surprise as Harrowhark Nonagesimus slammed open the bedroom door and stalked into the bathroom.

“Fuck me,” said Gideon. And then, as an eloquent followup: “Why the fuck is _she_ up?” Harrow didn’t wake up before noon on weekends. This was not a general rule. This was ironclad, as inexorable and steadfast as Harrow being snappish after work, or Harrow being snappish when she couldn’t find the right color of black lipstick, or Harrow being snappish on days that ended in Y. There was precisely one thing that would wake Harrow up at any time of day or night, and it had not rung in nearly half a decade. Gideon suspected the ancient rotary phone was the phone Harrow had heard ringing when she’d found her parents. Gideon had never asked.

Water hissed in the pipes as the old shower creaked into life, which meant that Gideon’s blissful morning was over. With the sigh of a prisoner resigned to her fate, Gideon sat up and padded into the kitchen to start up breakfast. Harrow’s morning ritual could be used to set clocks, and Gideon grinned as she heard the bathroom door open just as she flipped the last pancake onto the platter.

The smile lasted right up until Harrow demanded “What are you doing, Griddle?” Okay. So it was going to be one of _those_ days ending in Y.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it,” Gideon said. She put the pancakes on the table and rolled her eyes. “It’s nothing to make you breakfast instead of letting you gnaw on some fossilized granola that expired twenty years ago. Happy to do it. _You’re welcome._ ”

“I _meant_ , why aren’t you dressed or packed?” Harrow asked, as she sat down at the table. She took a single pancake, like she always did, and poured herself a glass of lukewarm water from the pitcher, like she always did. She glanced at Gideon. “Thanks,” she muttered.

“Better,” Gideon said, and she sat down across from Harrow. “Now, what nightmare have you woken up from in which we needed to go somewhere on a weekend?”

Harrow finished chewing the tiny piece of pancake she’d speared on her fork and swallowed. The rest of the pancake lay dissected and rapidly cooling on her plate. “It’s the conference,” she said.

“What conference?”

“The National College,” Gideon looked at her. “The National College of Forensic Sciences,” she explained, with a wave of her second forkful of pancake.

“Huh?” asked Gideon.

Harrow put her fork down and pinched the bridge of her nose as she finished her second bite. “The National College of Forensic Sciences is holding an academic conference at the Canaan Lyceum. I am a coroner. I work in forensics. I am presenting at the conference. You’re coming with me.”

Comprehension dawned. “The paper,” Gideon said, her mouth full, pointing her syrup-laden knife at Harrow.

“Yes, Gideon,” Harrow drawled. “The paper. The paper I have been working on for half a year.”

“Yeah, I was thinking I might skip it,” Gideon said. “It’s all kind of over my head, you know?” She wasn’t sure if the look Harrow gave her was because of what she had said or because of the food that had fallen out of her mouth as she said it. Probably both.

"Gideon Nonagesmius," Harrow said, in the voice she usually reserved for her attempts at cooking, "you are my wife, and I am presenting at this conference. What plans could you possibly have for the weekend that would be more important than supporting me?"

"I was thinking I'd spend it drinking cheap beer and watching porn," Gideon offered.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes."

It was at this time that Gideon decided discretion was the better part of valor. “Right. Sorry. I’ll start getting packed, then.”

“Please do. I still have to choose what to wear.”

“Wait. You haven’t packed either?”

Harrow’s perpetually pinched nostrils flared, which meant that they expanded from nearly invisible to actually perceptible. “I have packed everything I need.”

“Except for clothes.” Gideon was carefully scraping Harrow’s uneaten pancake bits into a ziploc bag with a clean knife. “I don’t mind, you know. It’s a bold statement. You want me to go naked too?”

“No, idiot,” Harrow said, all irritation and fondness and irritation at being fond in spite of her irritation. Gideon had grown to love that tone of voice, which was incredibly unfortunate for her wife. “I need you to tell me what looks good.”

Packing for Gideon meant regular clothes and her toothbrush and, at Harrow’s repeated demands—“What if we have to go to dinner somewhere?”—her suit. Harrow’s first rolling suitcase was already full of bones (she’d checked as Harrow put on her makeup). The second had underclothes and nothing else. Harrow had returned to find Gideon wearing one of her bras as a makeshift bonnet. Inexplicably, she did not find this hilarious.

“Obviously the words are going to do the majority of the convincing,” Harrow said, after her underthings were safely stowed out of Gideon’s easy reach, “but I want to look striking. I ordered some clothes.” She came out of the closet in a little black dress. It was not a good little black dress. Gideon didn’t know fashion, but she knew what Harrow needed to look good, and it was not poofs and frills and, oh my God, was that a _bow_? The next ensemble was, Harrow insisted, new and very fashionable, but it looked to Gideon’s eyes like everything else her wife owned. Black. Serious. Boring. The last one was a suit. “What about this, then? Impressive?”

“Harrow,” Gideon said, in an attempt to avoid telling her the truth, which was that she looked like a child playing dress-up, “they’re all great.”

Harrow crossed her arms.

“I mean, look, it’s about the words, right?” Gideon said, and instantly regretted it.

“Never mind,” said Harrow, her lips thin and bloodless, as she threw the suit aside and began stuffing her suitcase with her old, regular clothes.

 _Fuck_ , thought Gideon.

* * *

They’d driven most of the way to the Mithraeum Convention Center in an awkward silence. Gideon’s initial attempt to put on some of Harrow’s favorite music had been quickly aborted by her wife, who’d told her that she wanted to watch the scenery quietly. With a particular emphasis on “quietly.” When they got there, Harrow had insisted on carrying both her bags up to their room. “I’m going to go prepare,” she’d told Gideon after they’d unpacked. The _don’t fuck this up for me_ was incredibly loud for not having been spoken.

Gideon briefly thought about ordering cheap beer from room service and seeing if there was any porn on the pay-per-view hotel channels, just to piss Harrow off, but something deep in the back of her head told her that she should try to do something crazy, like help her wife. The problem, of course, was that her wife would rather gnaw off her own arm at the elbow than accept help. Or, more likely, gnaw Gideon’s arm off at the elbow.

“Whatever,” Gideon said out loud. “I’ll get a badass prosthetic. With camo plating.” She looked at the bones Harrow had placed around the room. “I’m not talking to _you_ ,” she said to the bones. “I’m talking to myself. Fuck you. You’re a bunch of ugly bones.” She left the room and the bunch of ugly bones behind with decided satisfaction.

Eventually she found her way to the beating heart of the convention center, namely the tacky bar that advertised an absurdly long happy hour with absurdly high prices. She sat next to a woman with skin like milk, hair like peaches, and a face like a lemon. “Hi,” said Gideon. The woman stared at her as though she’d grown a second head, and Gideon had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that the woman was looking through Gideon’s body to examine every bit of flesh and bone. She did not seem impressed.

“Let me guess. You’re one of the children presenting.” She didn’t sound impressed.

“Uh. I thought this was a forensics thing.”

“Right,” the woman said to Gideon. To the bartender, she rapped her knuckles on the bar and said, in a voice far louder than necessary, “Next!!”

“Don’t mind Professor Cristabel,” another woman told Gideon. “She doesn’t like these events. Call me Dulcinea.” _She_ was far prettier than was necessary, and Gideon had to twist her ring to remind herself of some important facts that were getting lost in a brief haze of how transparent Dulcinea’s skin was and how easy it would be to pick Dulcinea up to gently spin her around and how nice a name Dulcinea was, really, it was just a _really_ nice name—

“Undergraduates,” growled Professor Cristabel. “I can’t stand undergraduates. And call her Cytherea, because that’s her actual name.” Cytherea/Dulcinea stuck her tongue out in response, and Gideon laughed at the absurdity of it.

“What’s wrong with Cytherea?” she asked, but before the unfairly attractive woman could answer Harrow was there and was speaking.

“Cytherea. Mercymorn.”

“Hello, dear,” said Cytherea.

“So they let you out?” asked Professor Mercymorn—Cristabel—whoever-the-fuck. Gideon resisted the sudden urge to punch her. It took a great deal of effort.

“Yes,” Harrow said, without elaborating.

“You always were overly fascinated with the skeletons,” Mercymorn mused, as she swirled her gin and tonic around in her hand. Harrow’s lips were thin and pale, and her tiny fists were clenched at her sides. “Didn’t think you were so fascinated that you’d—”

“I’m her wife,” Gideon interrupted. “Hi. Gideon Nonagesimus. Met her when I was working a coffee shop. Love at first sight. Very romantic. You know how it is.”

“Oh?” Cytherea said, pleasantly. Mercymorn performed the visual dissection again, this time with an arched eyebrow. “Mercymorn and I are professors at Canaan Medical. Harrowhark was a student of ours. I haven’t seen someone so good with the skeletal system since Anastasia retired. I think even John would struggle to see the things Harrowhark does in bones.”

“Or to hear the things Harrowhark does in bones,” said Mercymorn. She took a swig of her drink.

“And what do you do?” Cytherea quickly asked Gideon, which was a very good thing both for Mercymorn’s face and for Gideon’s criminal record. “You mentioned a restaurant?”

“Oh, that was a long time ago. Now I work security at RB Studios,” Gideon said. To Mercymorn. “It’s a good job. I get in a lot of fights. I like getting in fights. Some people just need punching, you know?”

Mercymorn gave Gideon a smile that barely reached her mouth, much less her eyes. “No. But I’m sure you do.”

“Oh, yeah. Before I was in the coffee shop I was a grunt in the army.”

“And how did that end?” Mercymorn asked. Her drink was empty and abandoned, and she was meeting Gideon look for look. “I’m sure you achieved a great deal of glory in service to the country.”

“Got discharged after I punched a commanding officer in the teeth for being a dick,” said Gideon.

“Gideon,” said Harrow. “May I talk to you, please?” It wasn’t a question.

“Goodbye, dear,” said Cytherea.

“Goodbye! Very impressive family you’re building, Harrowhark!!” said Mercymorn.

Gideon stalked after Harrow. “Since when do you let someone talk to you like that?” she demanded. Harrow whirled around with a furious expression on her face.

“ _Since Mercymorn Cristabel was one of the best anatomists in the country_ ,” she hissed. “I told you I was going to go prepare! What were you doing?”

“Trying to help,” Gideon said. “Jesus, Harrow, you have to stick up for yourself.”

“Not to one of the primary grantwriters of Lyctor Incorporated, you _dolt_ ,” Harrow said with snarl.

“Hey,” Gideon said. “Hey. You don’t talk to me like that. You wanted me to come here.”

“It was a mistake,” Harrow said, turning and stalking away. “I’m sorry. Inviting you here was a mistake. I shouldn’t have made you come.” She turned and shook her head. “I’m sorry. You aren’t a dolt. I know you’re trying to help. I’m sorry. Just… just go. Okay? Go to our room, or find someone you _know_ , okay? Sextus and Hect are here. You’ve done enough already. I’m going to try to patch things up, or something.” Then she brushed past Gideon and was gone.

 _Well_ , thought Gideon. _Fuck._

* * *

The next day, Gideon woke up to an empty bed and Harrow’s quiet voice.

“Mrh,” Gideon said, as she rolled over and wiped sleep from her bleary eyes. “Hgh,” she added, feeling that elaboration was required. Harrow was holding a skull without a jawbone. When she saw Gideon looking at her, she quickly put it down. “It’s okay, Hamlet,” Gideon said. “Eat your heart out.”

“I was just holding it while I talked,” Harrow said quickly.

“Harrow,” Gideon said. “It’s okay. I trust you.”

“I’m being honest.”

“I said I trust you,” Gideon said. She sat up with a groan. “Also, you suck at bullshitting me, and you acted differently then.” _Then_. Such a nice way to talk about a living nightmare. They’d built entire edifices around _then_ , as if it were a story in another universe, happening to other versions of themselves. She looked at the disgustingly early time displayed on the hotel’s alarm clock and groaned again. “What the hell, Harrow.”

“I need more practice.”

“I need my vampire wife back. What happened to staying up late and waking up late?”

“Gideon, this is important.”

“I know it’s important. That’s why I’m here, fucking it up for you.” Harrow almost smiled at that. “How did the patching-up with Professor Lemonface go?” The almost-smile vanished in an instant. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Badly, Griddle. It went badly. Can I focus? Go back to bed.”

Gideon went back to bed. Before she drifted off to sleep, she heard the soft scrape of bone on wood. She kept awake long enough to be certain Harrow wasn’t doing anything besides talking. She did trust Harrow. She just wanted to be sure. That was all.

When she woke up the second time, Harrow was curled up next to her. Gideon looked at the clock and cursed. “Shit. Hey. Harrow. Harrow.” She shook her gently. “ _Nonagesimus_.” Harrow’s eyes snapped open and narrowed. “We’re late.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Harrow said. “It’s Saturday. I don’t present until Sunday afternoon.”

“Yeah, but the other presentations—”

“Are done by other people. I have no interest in listening to Sextus drone on about new methods of cataloguing according to computer algorithms.” Gideon sat up, grabbed the weekend agenda, and flipped through the paper. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for what Palamedes is actually doing. You should go to his, at least. You’re friends.”

“I literally just said what he was doing, Griddle.” It was true, at least from what Gideon could make out of the obscure title. “And we are colleagues, not friends. The only friend I have at this convention is currently keeping me awake.”

“Wouldn’t hurt you to make friends with some of the other nerds.”

Harrow sighed. “If I promise to go talk with Sextus and Hect with you, will you stop badgering me about this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then we’ll go talk to them. Later. His presentation’s in the afternoon. Now, either go away or lie back down, but either way: let me sleep.”

Gideon lay back down and sent a text off to Camilla. “Love you, Draculina.”

Harrow muttered something about a woman named Mina and wives who had rocks for heads as she curled up into Gideon’s arms. Gideon fell asleep to the gentle sound of her wife’s breathing and the soft scent of myrrh that still clung to her hair.

Harrow didn’t want to get out of bed at 2 PM, so Gideon hauled her, protesting violently, into the bathroom, and told her that she was either going to bathe or be bathed. To Gideon’s pleasant surprise, Harrow chose the latter. It took about fifteen minutes of Gideon gently massaging Harrow in the warm water of the tub for her to realize Harrow was asleep again. “Are you fucking kidding me,” she said. Harrow snored slightly as suds dripped down from her short-cropped curls. She didn’t stop sleeping when Gideon leaned forward, or when she drained the water, or when she slid the faucet’s plug with a loud and metallic “thunk.” The blast of ice-cold water from the shower-head, in contrast, woke her up _very_ quickly. Gideon was rewarded for her noble domestic efforts by a bloodcurdling screech and by a sudsy skull slamming back into her nose as Harrow clawed at the unfair and very cold world of wakefulness into which she had just been thrust.

“Worth it,” Gideon said, much later, as the last of the blood trickled slowly down from her nose. “Absolutely worth it.” Harrow still hadn’t spoken to her. She was applying her makeup with the dignity of a offended cat. Wordlessly, Harrow left the bathroom, slipped on her clothes, then walked out of the hotel room. Gideon counted to herself as she shrugged on her jeans and t-shirt.

It took fifteen seconds for Harrow to open the door and snap, “Are you going to sit in here all day?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gideon said, with a shit-eating grin.

Harrow chewed on stale bits of pancake from her ziploc as they rode the elevator down to the lobby. Gideon whistled a song that was stuck in her head.

“You’re getting the notes wrong,” said Harrow.

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s ‘Canticle of the Turning,’ I’ve heard it a hundred times at Mass, and I know how it sounds. You’re getting the notes wrong.”

“I don’t get notes wrong. I’m excellent at whistling. And I definitely am not whistling a God song.” The elevator spat them out. Gideon kept whistling the song. “I can _hear_ you grinding your molars,” she said to Harrow. Harrow growled. Soon enough they came across Palamades and Camilla in the glitzy restaurant attached to the hotel.

“Sex Pal!” said Gideon.

“Sextus,” said Harrow.

“Nonagesimi,” said Palamades.

“You are all _so_ stupid,” said Camilla. Gideon gave her a winning grin. Camilla returned it with the brief nod that she reserved especially for people in the category of “close friend,” or “friend,” or “polite acquaintance.” “You were getting the notes wrong,” she added. Gideon saw Harrow’s lips twitch and studiously ignored it.

“Am not.”

“You absolutely are. ‘Near Banbridge town, in the County Down, One morning last July, Down a boreen green came a sweet cailín, And she smiled as she passed me by…’” Camilla folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You can sing?” Harrow asked. She looked something very closed to impressed.

“Little bit. Not as well as Palamedes.”

“ _You_ can sing?” Gideon asked Palamedes. He pursed his lips and straightened slightly in his chair. “Jesus. Every time you move like that you look like a paperclip unfolding, I swear to God.” She and Harrow sat down at their table.

“Yes, I can sing,” Palamedes said. “And Camilla is a better singer than I am. How are you doing, Nonagesimus?”

“I’m fine,” Harrow said, her voice curt. Palamedes looked at Gideon. “Don’t look at her, Sextus. If I were relapsing, I would be the first to know it.”

“I don’t doubt you.” He raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I simply had the misfortune of running into Mercymorn yesterday.”

“Mercymorn is not my psychiatrist,” Harrow said in a snarl. “She is not a psychiatrist at all. And you—you aren’t my psychiatrist, either.”

“And I don’t want to be. I just want to make sure you’re doing well.”

“ _I’m fine_.”

“Good,” said Palamedes. “You should answer your phone more. You’re going to miss a grant acceptance. How many have you applied for now?”

“Thirty-eight. And I give them the landline.”

“The fabled landline,” Palamedes said. “I thought Gideon was joking. You really have a line only for grant acceptances?”

“Yes,” Harrow said.

“Does it ring often enough to justify the cost?”

“Cost is immaterial where that phone is concerned.” Harrow’s voice was chilly.

“Tell me about your presentation.” Gideon looked at Camilla. Camilla looked at Gideon. Gideon jerked her head to the side. Camilla nodded. Ten minutes later, they’d changed and were jogging on two shitty treadmills in what the hotel generously called a “fitness center.”

“How’d his presentation go?” Gideon asked Camilla.

“Fine,” Camilla said. “Not a lot of people showed up, which is how he likes it. He thinks it means the ones who show up are invested.”

“You know your cousin is weird.”

“I love him.”

“Gross.”

“Cut it out, Nav.” Camilla’s voice was flat. “You know what I mean. He’s a good man.”

“Are you really gonna just live with him for the rest of your lives? What happens when he gets married?”

“Then I move on.”

“That’s not normal.”

“Neither is lecturing your running partner on her life choices. I don’t pester you about your wife. Return the favor about my cousin.”

Gideon turned off the treadmill and turned to face Camilla. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Camilla kept running, though she turned her head to look at Gideon. With Gideon off the treadmill, they were almost the same height. “You know exactly what it means. She’s not stable. She brought her bones to the hotel, didn’t she?”

“None of your fucking business. Harrow’s fine.”

“Good. Then focus on keeping her that way, and stay out of my business.”

It was an awkward walk back to the restaurant. It got substantially more awkward when they heard Harrow’s elevated voice. “Shit,” said Gideon. She and Camilla broke into a run.

“—would be absolutely beyond anything you could come up with, you gutless pile of filth!” Harrow was yelling. She was standing next to Palamedes, who gazed placidly over his big, stupid spectacles at her. “It’s going to change things!”

“Hey. Harrow. Come on,” Gideon said. She glanced at Camilla, who looked back with her arms folded. “Let’s go.”

“I should _hit_ you,” Harrow said, which is when Camilla decided to move. Gideon was right behind her, but Camilla did nothing except put herself between the two doctors.

“It’s fine, Cam,” said Palamedes, but Camilla cut him off.

“No, it’s not. Back off, Nonagesimus. Now.” Harrow clenched her fists. Camilla didn’t even blink. “I said, back off.”

Gideon put her hands on Harrow’s shoulders and pulled her a few feet away. Enough to stop anything critically stupid from happening.

“You’re brilliant, Nonagesimus.” Camilla said. “That’s why Palamedes likes you. And when you’re healthy, you’re fine. You aren’t healthy right now. You think you’re cutting an impressive figure right now. You aren’t. You think you’re speaking some sort of prophetic truth. You aren’t. You think you’re going to change people’s minds about you with this presentation. You aren’t. You should go home.”

Harrow turned and stalked off. Gideon felt the stares on her back as she hurried after her wife.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Doctor Nonagesimus, but people have _concerns_.” John Gaius leaned back in his chair and looked at Harrow sympathetically.

“Like what?” Gideon demanded.

“Gideon, don’t,” Harrow said. They were sitting in some office decorated in anodyne linoleum blues and greys, which only made the bizarre portrait hanging behind Gaius even more bizarre. Who the hell would want a creepy painting of a woman whose eyes looked like a monster’s? “President Gaius, I acknowledge that I may have been… disruptive… in my interaction with Palamedes Sextus today, but I was provoked.”

“Very reasonable,” said the President. “Doctor Sextus is by nature particularly incisive. It is one of the reasons the College values his input so much. Oh, thank you, Alecto.” Gideon rubbed her temples to try and ward off her rapidly growing headache as Gaius’ secretary placed a tray of tea and cookies on the table. The day had been shit, and it was rapidly growing worse. It seemed to work well enough; by the time the door clicked behind the secretary, the pain had subsided to a dull throb. “But I am afraid the College has an image to maintain. You understand.”

“This is discrimination,” Harrow said. Her voice was frost. “This is nothing but disgusting bias from a medical association that has no excuse for it. I _will_ sue, Gaius—”

“Stop,” said the President, and Harrow shut her mouth with an audible _click_ of teeth. “You are not going to sue. We both know very well that you can’t afford it, and there’s not a lawyer in the country who would take your case on contingency. And if there _were_ a lawyer unwise enough to do it, you know that you would lose. I am reasonable, Doctor. An hour-long slot, and a brief question and answer session to follow.”

“An hour-long slot at the same time at Abigail Pent’s _six-hour_ presentation on dissociative disorders and criminology?” Harrow said, incredulous. “Nobody will come. _Nobody_. And you know it.”

“I am certain that people will be in attendance, Doctor. You have always presented a refreshing counterpoint to the mainstream.”

“This is not pseudoscience!” Harrow said, her voice hot. Sweat was trickling down her face. “I have data. Real data!”

“The College would not allow you to present at all if we thought it were promoting _pseudoscience_ , Doctor. I am simply acknowledging that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in the philosophies of many. But you are not quite so limited.”

“Unlike my presentation,” Harrow said bitterly.

“Unlike your presentation,” the president agreed amiably. He took a sip of tea. “Would you like a biscuit?”

“I would like my slot back.”

“Next year, Doctor. Next year, I will give you a full slot.”

“Next year, someone will have taken what I am talking about and made it theirs.”

“Doctor, I can assure you that nobody has the mind that you do.”

“I want a refund of my application. In total.”

“Done.”

“And travel expenses. All expenses.”

“Done. I am sorry, Doctor. I truly am. We will ensure that you are compensated for your time and effort.”

Harrow stood. “You cannot _possibly_ compensate me for my time and effort,” she said.

“I understand,” said Gaius. “But, Doctor, take heart. You are not alone. It is not the first time that impressive time and effort has resulted in…” he trailed off.

“In what?” Harrow demanded. The president just smiled softly. Apologetically. Gideon suddenly felt, very strongly, that he needed punching. That the entire history of her life had brought her here, to this point, so that she could stand up for her wife, literally stand up, stride forward, and repeatedly punch John Gaius in the face. But by the time Gideon was done processing this new personal telos, the door was shutting behind Harrow. She stood and walked to the door in defiance of ten thousand years of inchoate, screaming fury. With every step, her headache grew worse. At the threshold, she paused and looked back.

“Hey.”

“Yes, Mrs. Nonagesimus?” asked John Gaius.

“ _Fuck_ you, buddy,” said Gideon Nonagesimus. She slammed the door behind her when she left.

* * *

The room had more people in it than Gideon was expecting. Camilla and Palamedes entered early. Palamedes just nodded to her and sat at her right. She’d nodded back. Camilla hesitated for a moment.

“We good?” Gideon asked.

“We’re good.” Camilla said, with a nod, and sat down at Gideon’s left. Weird.

“You know I’m going to punch you in the face if you try and do something,” Gideon added, just to make sure that her relationship with Camilla never went past the status of “cordial.”

“Neither of us are here to try and do anything,” Palamedes said. “Except watch our friend give a presentation she cares deeply about.”

“Your friend?”

“Cam wasn’t lying when she told Harrow that we enjoy being around her when she’s healthy.”

“That’s not what I remember you saying,” Gideon said to Camilla.

“That’s because it’s not what I said,” Camilla said back. “But I wasn’t lying. She’s not a bad person. Neither are you. You’re just both…”

“Brilliant and gorgeous romantics,” said Gideon.

“Unhealthy but well-meaning partners,” said Palamedes.

“Idiots,” said Camilla.

“We contain multitudes,” Gideon said, and nodded her head sagely. Palamedes gave her an incredibly weird look. “What?”

“I didn’t take you for a reader of poetry.”

“Poetry?” Gideon snorted. “Poetry is for nerds. I read that in a fortune cookie.”

There was a moment of silence. “I think she’s ready to present,” Camilla said. Gideon looked back at the room. Gaius was there, talking with his secretary. Just looking at him made her head hurt. He noticed her glare and inclined his head politely at her. She resisted the urge to give him the finger. “Try not to kill the President of the College.”

“No promises,” Gideon growled. Then the lights dimmed, and Harrow was speaking.

“Colleagues,” Harrow said, without any further introduction. “I apologize for the abrupt changes. This presentation is to be shorter than I had expected. The documentation that I have provided you is, however, complete. My name is Harrowhark Nonagesimus. I am the coroner for Aita County, Massachusetts, and my research focuses primarily on skeletal analysis.” She was speaking in the short, clipped manner she used when she was nervous. Gideon tapped her fingers restlessly on her knee and surprised herself by wishing she’d actually paid some attention to whatever the hell her wife did for a job, beyond poke at dead people. “I am here to present on the use of mental constructs in forensic analysis. It is my belief, which preliminary research appears to confirm, that a methodology—a holistic theorem, if you will—of imagining a decedent as a person with whom one can converse leads to more accurate results by incorporating a more complete concept of the deceased into the mind of the forensic examiner.” The room was very, very quiet. “To be clear,” Harrow said, her words now very sharp, “I am in no way promoting some sort of mystical or pseudoscientific practice. The concept of the deceased is entirely a production of the mind of the coroner. The purpose is not some sort of _necromancy_ , divination of the dead. Such acts, of course, are impossible. The purpose, rather, is to create a mental construct with which one may mentally interact. If you will turn the handout I gave you to page nine…”

Gideon, to her credit, looked at the various words and charts on page nine for a solid thirty seconds before her eyes glazed over. To her even greater credit, she managed to avoid bringing out her phone. That this was accomplished mostly by imagining Harrow without her clothes on, she decided to keep a secret. She smelled something strangely familiar. “Hello, Gideon,” Cytherea whispered, from behind her. Palamedes actually turned and glared at Cytherea. Gideon’s eyebrows shot up. She wasn’t aware that he had the capacity to be angry. “Oh, Palamedes. The past is past. Don’t blow up at me now. It would ruin dear Harrow’s presentation.” He narrowed his eyes and turned back to the presentation.

“Be careful with that one,” Camilla murmured to Gideon. There was an edge in her voice. Gideon decided not to delve into whatever weird history the three of them had.

“Hello, Professor,” Gideon said quietly.

“Oh, _do_ call me Dulcinea.”

“That is not your name,” Palamedes hissed. He actually hissed it. He sounded like Harrow, which was profoundly weird. Gideon saw Harrow glance nervously at the four of them. Right. Time for action.

“Look,” Gideon said, as she turned around to look at Palamedes and Cytherea. “My wife is giving a presentation that she’s been busting her ass for half a year on. I don’t know what the fuck your problem is with each other, but _shut up_.” They shut up. She turned back and gave Harrow a wink and a thumbs up.

The rest of the presentation seemed to go smoothly, as far as Gideon could tell. Given her complete ignorance of the subject, all this meant was that there wasn’t any shouting. Camilla watched Harrow talk. Palamedes took a truly absurd amount of notes. Cytherea whispered occasionally to _Mercymorn_ , of all people, who had shown up halfway through.

“…which concludes this abbreviated talk,” Harrow said. “Thank you for attending. I will now take questions.” Palamedes raised his hand, because of course he would. “Doctor Sextus.”

“I’m curious as to whether you think that the chairwork developed by Perls and Goodman could be used in this.”

“It is archaic, as you know, but I suspect that many methods of externalization…” Gideon resisted a groan as the two started to back and forth about dead people.

“Almost done,” Camilla said. “She did well.”

“Thanks,” Gideon said.

“Nobody is going to take it seriously, but she did well.”

“Fucking learn to quit while you’re ahead, Hect. Do _you_ take it seriously?”

Camilla shrugged. “Palamedes is asking questions.”

“He would ask questions to a homeless guy yelling that the end is nigh and the sun is about to go out.” Camilla snorted.

There weren’t many questions. It looked like things were wrapping up when someone said “ahem” in a particularly annoying voice. She didn’t clear her throat. She simply said “ahem.” This was, in Gideon’s opinion, something that should be illegal. The speaker was an obnoxiously tall woman—which is to say, she was taller than Gideon, which Gideon also resolved to outlaw when she got in charge of the universe—with a slightly sallow complexion and long, pale hair.

“Doctor Ianthe Tridentarius,” Harrow said, in a perfectly sepulchral tone. “I am surprised to see you here.”

“Oh, I wasn’t _here_ ,” Ianthe said, and added a fake laugh that was tailored to be exquisitely contemptuous. “Dr. Pent was just now giving a full presentation on dissociation, and you know how much I’m interested in mental health. But I read your abstract, and I was wondering if you would be up to answering a few of my questions.”

“Look out,” Palamedes murmured. Camilla looked vaguely stressed. Harrow, Gideon realized with a sick pang of recognition, looked utterly disinterested, which meant that she was terrified.

“By all means,” Harrow said.

“I’m curious if you have considered the effect of this… _theorem_ … on the mental health of a practitioner.”

“I have,” Harrow said curtly. “Do you have another question?”

“Yes. It seems to me that a person might well develop unhealthy coping mechanisms in dealing with corpses—”

“Rates of desensitization among the various disciplines of medicine are well known,” Harrow interrupted.

“Excuse me,” Ianthe said, with a nasty little smile. “I wasn’t finished. Don’t you think that your little methodology might exacerbate symptoms?”

“I’m quite sure that I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Oh. Well, then.” Ianthe started to walk down the room. Her fingers trailed along each of the chairs as she passed them. “Let me provide a hypothesis. Let’s imagine a brilliant young coroner who has a bright young future ahead of her. Everyone is sure she will go so incredibly far. But she has a secret.” Gideon tasted blood in her mouth and realized she’d chewed open part of her cheek. “She actually has a severe and undiagnosed psychosis. And as she proceeds in her career, she begins to develop an… _unhealthy_ _coping mechanism._ ” She was at the front row, now, still standing.

“Is there a point to this?” Harrow gritted out.

“Still not done!” Ianthe said, in a chiding voice. “You see, this brilliant young coroner begins to hear voices. And not just any voices. She begins to hear the voices of…” She paused, dramatically, then turned to the crowd and waved her hands theatrically. “…the _dead_!” There was complete silence. Gideon felt two hands on each of her arms. Palamedes and Camilla had both grabbed hold of her.

“This is her fight,” Palamedes said quietly.

“If you interrupt, she’ll look weak,” Camilla added.

Gideon growled, deep in her throat. Palamedes, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “Hit me after,” he whispered. “But trust us now.”

“Yes,” Ianthe continued, as she turned back to Harrow, “this brilliant young coroner believes that she can talk to bones, and that they talk back! She begins bringing bones everywhere. Home. Shopping. To hotels! But eventually, her secret is out, and she is institutionalized. Now, obviously this poor girl’s dreams are shattered, but she still recovers. Mostly. And she goes back to work. What would you recommend that she do?”

Harrow was gripping the podium so hard that Gideon heard it creaking. “I would recommend,” she said, “that the doctor in question consult with her psychiatrist and treatment team, and that she trust their decisions as they regard her career.”

“Of course,” Ianthe said. “Of course. But would you recommend that this doctor pursue a methodology of speaking to bones?”

“I see no harm in it, assuming that, as I just said, she is in consultation with her psychiatrist and treatment team.”

“Would you recommend that she doctor pursue it if the creator of the methodology in question had suffered from an identical psychosis?” Loud murmurs filled the room. Harrow looked stricken.

“I—” she started. “I…” Was she lost for words? Harrow was _never_ lost for words.

“This is all _very_ interesting, Nonagesimus,” Ianthe said. “And it might make a wonderful fantasy novel. But it seems to me the _most_ impressive part of this is how you’ve managed to turn your own psychosis into a drug you want others to take. Perhaps the only truly impressive part of it. I might even use it as a case study, if you’re willing.”

Harrow’s response was to walk stiffly to where Ianthe was lounging against a chair and to backhand her across the face so hard that Gideon heard the unmistakable crack of bone. She was on her feet in an instant as the room erupted. Palamedes and Camilla were saying something to her, but it was drowned out completely by the fact that she was going to wring Ianthe Tridentarius’ neck. Her vision was actually growing red, and a part of her mind realized that this was probably not normal. She was almost there, when

John Gaius said, “Stop.” Everything went quiet. Everyone froze.

Harrow was the first to break the spell. She ran out of the room, cradling her hand.

“Fuck,” said Camilla Hect.

“Fuck,” said Palamedes Sextus.

“ _Fuck_ ,” said Gideon Nonagesimus.

* * *

Harrow didn’t say a word to Gideon after the presentation. She didn’t even look at Gideon. She simply sat in the car, muttering to herself, as Gideon and Palamedes quickly packed the Nonagesimus’ things. Camilla was standing guard a respectful but easily covered distance away from the car. Palamedes had paused briefly when he saw the bones, but he’d had the grace not to say anything about it.

“Thanks,” Gideon said to the two, as she loaded the car.

“Just tell me she’s isn’t relapsing, Nav,” Palamedes said.

“She’s not relapsing. The shrink told her it was fine as long as she was careful. And she’s not acting like she did then.” Again with _then_. _Then_ had been ripped open and had its entrails exposed to the world by Ianthe Tridentarius. There was no more _then_. There was just the now very public story of Harrowhark Nonagesimus, mad scientist. “I’m going to keep her safe.”

“I know you will,” Palamedes said. Camilla nodded. “Keep us updated. Let’s go, Cam.”

Harrow didn’t look up as Gideon got in the car and entered the driving seat. Gideon let loose a breath she hadn’t known she was holding in—the muttering was Harrow praying on her rosary. The ivory beads clicked quietly as she moved from prayer to prayer. Gideon let her pray as she started the car up and started driving them back home.

If the car ride to the Mithraeum had been awkward, the car ride back to Drearbruh was positively dreadful. At one point, Gideon heard Harrow hiccuping, and laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. Then Harrow had turned her face to Gideon, the face that was so sharp and delicate, the face that looked like some horrible Halloween costume with mascara running down its bone-white cheeks, the face that had an unutterable expression of hurt writ plain across its fragile features, and Gideon’s laughter had turned to horror.

“Oh, my God. _Harrow_. Harrow, I’m so sorry, I thought—” She turned the blinkers on and started to merge rightward.

“What are you doing?” Harrow croaked.

“Pulling off the road.”

“Don’t. Don’t, Gideon, Griddle, _please_.” Always with that goddamned “please.” “Just take us home.”

Gideon took them home. Harrow cried all the way there. It was a quiet, broken weeping, as if she was trying to hide it from Gideon. This was, unaccountably, more hurtful than the regular flares of her temper. By the time they arrived at the house, Harrow had smeared her black eyeshadow and mascara so badly that her dark eyes looked like they were peering out from vast skeletal sockets.

“Can we leave our things in the car?” Harrow whispered.

“Yes.”

“And can I have your coat? I don’t want people to see me.”

“Yes.”

They went inside. Gideon stood next to Harrow. “I want to be alone,” Harrow said.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

“I said I want to be alone!” Harrow screamed.

Somewhere very deep inside of Gideon Nonagesimus, something snapped. Or maybe it clicked into place. She wasn’t sure. She didn’t care. She grabbed Harrow and lifted her up over her shoulder.

“Stop it!” Harrow screamed, again. “Stop it! Put me down! Let me go!” She kicked Gideon in the chest, repeatedly. She tore at Gideon’s hair with her hands.

“I’m sorry,” Gideon said. She sat down on the couch and clutched her flailing wife to her. “I’m sorry. I’m not letting you go.” Harrow’s screams slowly turned into helpless sobs, and the hands that had clawed at Gideon’s hair and face clenched her shirt until she could feel the seams start to tear. Gideon didn’t say anything for a long, long time. “I lied,” she said at last. “To Professor Lemonface. Mercymorn.” Harrow looked up and stared at her. “I didn’t fall in love with you at first sight. I thought you were scrawny and weird.” Harrow jerked as if struck and opened her mouth. “No. Shut up. Shut _up_ , Harrow. Let me finish. I’m going to talk to you, goddammit, and you’re going to listen, and then you can do whatever you want.” Harrow shut up. “I thought you were some scrawny weird goth who didn’t get bullied enough in school. And I was pissed off at you, because you were always such a bitch in the way you said “please” and “thank you,” and you had this huge future ahead of you, and here I was, this stupid army failure working a diner, but you _always_ said “please” and “thank you” and you always reordered coffee and you always gave good tips. Not just to me. To everyone.” She took a deep breath. “And your friends came in and you were a complete bitch to them too, but every time one of them had a problem you stayed up until I had to tell you to get out because we’d closed thirty minutes ago, and we were a fucking _diner_ , Harrow, we closed at like 4 in the morning.”

Harrow opened her mouth again, but Gideon just put her hand over it. “And you never gave up. You _never_ gave up. And then we started talking, and you were a complete bitch to me, but you kept me around as I fucked up over and over, and you just kept going. And you got sick, so sick, and you kept going, and everything fell apart and you _still didn’t give up_. You got better and _you went back to doing it_ , because that’s who you are. You’re a self-destructive idiot genius who hates almost everything around her and will literally kill herself to do something good in the world. And I know you want to prove yourself. I get it. _I get it_. I won’t even say that you shouldn’t want to, because not even I am that stupid.” Harrow was unnervingly still. Gideon took her hand off her mouth. “Are you alive?”

“I’m alive,” Harrow rasped. Tears were trickling down her face again.

“Look,” said Gideon. She cupped Harrow’s face in her hand. “I just want you to know that you don’t have to try to impress me. You’ve done that every day I’ve known you. And I fall in love with you again every day.”

There was a very long silence. Finally, Harrow said, in a shaking voice, “You told me that ‘I cannot conceive of a universe without you’ was the worst pickup line you’d ever heard.”

“That’s because it was. You suck at pickup lines. I am amazing at pickup lines. I just suck at being a wife.”

There was a shorter silence. Then Harrow wrapped her arms around Gideon and pushed her down against the couch. Her lips were so warm; Harrow always felt like she was running a fever. “You are the best of all possible wives,” she said, through her tears, and then there was no more speaking for a very long time indeed.

At some point they heard the distant ringing of a phone, but eventually it stopped.


End file.
